Dagger of the Moon
by Sister Coyote
Summary: After Cecil's death, Queen Rosa of Baron reaches out to an old friend. But Kain cannot untangle his present from his past, or either from his future. Final Fantasy 4, Rosa/Kain, Rosa/Cecil. Character death.
1. the blistered palm holding its tune

This is how it begins for Kain Highwind:

He does not attend their wedding, the wedding of his best friend and his best beloved, because he cannot stand himself. And then, having missed their _wedding_ and their _coronation_, he does not know how to come back.

Rosa sends him letters, and they reach him wherever he travels, somehow. Perhaps it is magic. Perhaps it is just her.

Sometimes her words summon him back, and he comes. They greet him without anger but with welcome. They call him an honored guest. Cecil talks to him as he would to a friend, as though there was not a great gulf between them of what he did to them. Rosa smiles at him with her eyes and her mouth and the whole posture of her body, as though he had never had her bound to a wall.

They cannot have any idea that this is far worse for him than if they had screamed at him.

So he leaves again and stays away until her words draw him back. And so he goes, a pendulum, driven away by his guilt and grief, drawn back by his love for both of them. He cannot find equilibrium; he cannot be happy either with them or without them.

He wanders. He learns the world, the height of every mountain, the farthest reaches of the oceans, the deep caverns beneath, the thick heart of the woods. He wanders and searches for peace and knows even as he does that peace lies in the stone walls of Baron, but that he cannot go back for it because it is guarded by the fangs of his own personal dragon.

So he moves wind-restless, passing through the world and leaving no mark, no footstep, no memories except his own.

Until the day he receives the letter bound in black ribbon, and he knows even before he opens it what has happened, and that he will go back again.

* * *

This is how it begins for Queen Rosa of Baron:

She loves her husband wholly and without reserve, but she misses her friend. It is a small shard of ice in the middle of the warmth of her heart, that he could not be there for her wedding day, although she understands why he could not. But as she walks the grounds of Castle Baron, the halls and the courtyards, the fountains, the rose garden, the tower rooms, she feels that it is out of balance. There should be three of them: Cecil, bright and strong and often too noble for his own good; Kain, clever and sharp and the shadow that should be the equal opposite of every light; and herself in the center, at the hinge between the light and the dark, her husband and her friend.

That was as it was meant to be.

So she writes to him, long letters to share her life with him and to tell him that she misses him. He comes back, stays a while, and then leaves again without a word.

It falls into a pattern, a rhythm, and she begins to think that her metaphor was wrong. She is the earth and Cecil the moon, and Kain is the restless tide.

So it goes until one day Cecil goes away to stop a feud between two villages, and is killed instantly when a rioter's thrown rock hits his head.

For the space of a year she grieves, grieves and must rule as well, for she is the Queen of Baron—the queen now clad in black, veiled, her heart a garden in winter. During that time she thrice sits down and begins a letter to Kain, to tell him, and cannot do it. The tears blur her eyes and her hand shakes, and she puts aside quill and paper.

Until a year has passed and she feels the first spring tendril rising from the dormant briars. She considers it, walking in her gardens, standing on her ramparts, and as the tendril grows she takes off her veil, and then later trades her heavy-mourning black for the grey-trimmed lavender of half-mourning. Finally the wildrose growing in the garden of her heart puts out new leaves and then a bud, and she puts aside half-mourning for the gold and rose and white of her reign, and sits to write a letter to Kain.


	2. sing the heart of water

Kain is not a coward, but the high walls of Baron fill him with dread. The gate guards welcome him, though, without any fuss, and send for the Queen.

It was always Cecil who greeted him before, and now, of course, it is not. Somehow he had not thought of that, when he decided to come, and he is glad he did not, becuase he is not sure he would have been able to. It took him six months to return to Baron after he learned of Cecil's death, six months in which he grieved privately for what was lost and what could now never be.

He realizes now that some part of him will never stop grieving, that he will only learn to live with it.

And then there is Rosa, standing in the doorway.

Rosa smiles at him. Rosa _smiles_ at him and she is and always has been beautiful, so beautiful that it renders him powerless. All he can do is swallow and clench his fists, unclench them.

She is dressed in white and rose and gold, as she always has been. For a moment he is surprised by the lack of mourning colors, but then he realizes that, counting the time that lapsed between when Cecil died and she wrote him, and when she wrote him and he came, Cecil has been gone two years.

"You have my condolences," he says.

She nods and smiles again, a little sadly. "Thank you. And you have mine," she says.

Her voice and her words fill his throat from the chest upward, with a thickness that is partly all the tears he could not shed and partly a sweetness that is painful. He knows, without arrogance or self-aggrandizement but as simple fact, that he is one of the best warriors in the world. There are few things in the world, whether man, beast or monster, that he cannot best in a trial of arms. The crest of Rosa's head comes no higher than his shoulder and he could circle her forearm with his forefinger and thumb and yet, here and now, he is helpless before her. All his skills and all his training will do him no good here.

"You said you wanted me to come and aid you," he says, feeling at loose ends here before her eyes.

"Yes," she says, and then frowns. "You're still wearing your armor." It's true. He is more comfortable with it on, these days, and most comfortable at all when she cannot see his face. But she reaches up to lift it off him, the dragon helm that was his father's, as though it were nothing. The motion brings her close to him, close enough that he can smell the clean sunlight scent of her hair—

He is and has always been hopelessly in love with her, and though he never, never speaks of it, it has been years since he left off lying about it to himself.

He catches her wrists as if to stop her, and then lets go of her just as quickly, as though her skin could burn him. Perhaps it can. He mutters an apology.

"It's all right," she says, bemused, and then the helmet is off and in her hands. She holds it very comfortably. Well, of course she does. Cecil once wore such a helm.

All of a sudden her proximity is too much and he steps back. The air sizzles and burns in the space between them, and he draws a deep shaky breath, trying to regain his focus and his center. Trying to breathe air that does not smell sweetly of her hair and her skin. Still she holds his helm in her hands and smiles at him.

"That's better," she says. "I feel like I haven't seen your face in years." For a horrible and wonderful moment he wonders if she will offer to help him unlatch his gauntlets and greaves . . . .

But no, of course not. She holds out his helm to him, and he realizes that she is doing him the honor of letting him keep it with him, rather than handing it to a page to be returned to his room. He inclines his head, which feels bare and naked without the comforting and disguising weight, and tucks the helm under his arm.

* * *

That first night Kain asks to be taken to Cecil's grave, and so she takes him, to the ancient crypt where all the Kings of Baron lay to rest. Though all the other tombs are granite, Cecil's is unpolished marble, the color of his hair. On it are written the words _Cecil Harvey, King of Baron and Lord of the Circle Mountains, Champion of the Green World. Beloved husband and friend. Last son of the moon._

She takes him there and then leaves him, remembering how in the first months after his death she spent many hours with her cheek against the rough stone, longing to feel something of his presence. She leaves Kain to do the same in privacy, if he wishes.

When Kain returns he has shed all of his armor, not just his helm. She has forgotten how slim he is beneath the metal shell, whipcord-lean with the tail of his hair drawing a line down his long, long spine.

She wants to embrace him for his comfort and her own, but she knows that he would not welcome it, so she stays back. Kain tells her in brief, rough-voiced words that he will not be to dinner, and then retreats to his rooms.

When she goes out to the crypt, she finds that Kain has left all his armor, including his dragon-helm, in a pile at the foot of Cecil's tomb.

* * *

Rosa's letter asked him to come help her, and help he will. Kain finds many things to do. Like an apprentice again he polishes armor, sharpens swords, oils bows and bowstrings, fletches arrows. When he has run out of things to do in the cool privacy of the armory, he turns restlessly to the kitchen. He notices that the kitchen staff stay well away from him when he carries water, sharpens knives, splits wood for the oven. When their frightened looks finally wear at him, he goes to the engineers, who always need someone to carry heavy things for them, or oil their ironworks to keep them from rusting.

It is not a sufficient penance by any stretch, but it will do.

But by dinnertime Rosa has come to find him, her head cocked to one side and her smile bemused. "That wasn't precisely what I had in mind."

"I help where I am able," Kain explains. If he uses the word 'penance' she will argue with him, so he does not.

"I was thinking more that I could use someone to _talk_ to," Rosa says, sitting on the steps to the engineers' workroom. "Someone who remembers old Baron, someone who I can trust. Cecil and I used to discuss everything. I have no one to do that with now, and it weighs heavy on me."

"You want me to talk to you?" He must sound incredulous, because she smiles.

"Yes," she says, and then, lightly, "Surely conversation with me is not more onerous than carrying heavy objects all day?"

"No," he says.

* * *

At first Kain is hesitant to make any suggestions, so for the first weeks when she meets with him to talk about the kingdom, the army, the people, he is a sounding board only. But in time he comes to make suggestions, and they are good ones: Kain has always been a clever man, perceptive in all the ways except that most important.

His opinions on the military are intelligent and come from long experience. His ideas about foreign policy are a perfect counterpoint to her own.

They talk for long hours in the afternoon, after her morning meetings, and after a time he begins to help her with the papers and scrolls as they pile up.

Many nights their conversations spill over into dinner. One night, he demonstrates a point about the relations between Mysidia and Troia using a soup bowl to represent the inner sea, bread for the Damcyan desert, and candlesticks to represent the two cities. Watching the serious expression on his face as he swoops the lit candlestick into place, and then uses a salt dish to represent a trade ship and a vinegar cruet to represent pirates, she realizes that she not only likes him and loves him but also _wants_ him. Desire has been rising in her like sap ever since she saw him again. By the light of the candles the strong lines of his face are as handsome as a falcon's fierce head, shadows and planes. His expression, open and intelligent and thoughtful, is a far cry from the gloom and guilt he wore when he first came.

But when she tries to move closer to him, or when she tries to turn the conversation from the political to the personal, he shuts tight, locks himself up behind a wall. She wants to reach out for him but all she can touch is that hard facade, that protective armor.

Sitting with him at dinner, she misses him.


	3. hear you a song that enchants the stone

Kain loves his dinners with Rosa, and he hates them. She asks his opinion and listens to it, and he talks to her freely when she does so. But still he aches, and he does not want to share that ache with her, does not want to infect her with it.

He will hurt her. And he will betray the memory of his friend.

But still she _pushes_, and he is afraid becuase someday he will give in (he has never been able to tell her _no_), and then he will hurt her again and it will be his fault. She is safer with the memory of Cecil, who was good, than with the reality of himself.

" . . . and then I believe it would be time well spent to take Edward to the harvest festival. He would appreciate it," he finishes, and then applies himself to his roast lamb.

"You don't need to say that with such disdain," Rosa says, laughing. "Edward may not be much of a fighter, but he's a good king. And Damcyan is one of our staunchest allies." She tips her head. "Besides, don't you enjoy harvest festivals, even a little?"

"Frivolous," Kain says, spearing a potato with his fork.

"Perhaps I should make you come with me, just for that," Rosa says. And the lightness in her tone, the way she smiles at him, made his heart stumble and then begin to race.

As calmly as he can, he says, "I don't know what I would even _do_ at a harvest festival."

"Say nice things about oversized vegetables. Look appropriately noble and approving. Eat too much. Drink beer." She smiles. "Dance with me."

His throat freezes.

"I know you can dance," Rosa continues. "All men of good birth learn. I've seen you. And you, at least, wouldn't step on my toes."

"Rosa," he says, his voice strangled.

"I would like very much not to go alone," Rosa says. Her voice is soft as poppy petals, and just as dangerous.

"Rosa, I can't." He can feel himself shutting down, shutting off, the only way he knows how to defend himself. Walls upon walls. "You know that I can't."

"I know that you think you can't." She hesitates, and then says, more softly, "Is it that you don't want to? Because if it is, I will leave you in peace."

The simplest thing would be to say: yes, that's exactly it, I don't want to. I don't feel for you that way.

But it is a lie so great it cannot pass from his mind to his mouth, and he put his fork down mutely.

There is a long, silent moment, and he looks at Rosa and she looks at him, and he knew his eyes are speaking things he should not allow but he cannot not look away. Cannot.

"Cecil loved you," Rosa says, softly. "He was not angry. He only missed you. As I missed you. And miss you."

Kain says nothing.

"As I loved you," Rosa continued, holding his gaze. "As I love you."

He swallows. "I have always loved you, Rosa," he says. "You know that." His voice falls like stones dropped in a pond, and he watched her to see the ripples. "But Cecil . . . I . . . "

"Cecil wanted you to be happy. He wanted _me_ to be happy." And then, with a hint almost of exasperation, "Kain, we talked about this, him and I."

" . . . you talked about what you would do if he . . . ?"

"He was not as much a fool as perhaps some would believe. We both knew that he could be a poor and passive king and live safe within Baron's walls, or he could be a good and active king and very likely die young." She looks away, and he sees the echo of sorrow, sees how much she has missed Cecil and in that moment sees that some part of her will always grieve, too. But what she says is, "He told me to live and to be happy, and that a good ruler needs someone to support them and that I should seek that. And he loved you, and he trusted you."

"More fool him," Kain says, bitter, bitter, poison purging from his tongue.

"No," Rosa said and her voice turns sharp. She rises and come to stand by his chair, and he looks up at her, helpless, helpless, helpless and so in love with her. "Cecil was not a fool for trusting you, or a fool for loving you. And neither am I. And I cannot make you see that, or force you to heal yourself, but I will not let you turn your tongue to a knife to cut Cecil or me because you cut yourself worse with every word."

Kain says nothing.

"I cannot make you see anything," Rosa says. "But I can ask you to look." And she bends and kisses his forehead, chastely, but he can smell nightflowers on her and her presence is stronger than any wine. For a fleeting second she rests her forehead against his temple. "And if you will not be gentle with yourself, then I will be gentle with you, because you are my friend and my right arm and I love you." She straightens, then, and says, "Good night, Kain Highwind," and then she is gone, and he is alone with the candles burning down on the table.

* * *

After dinner Rosa goes out into her private courtyard-garden. It is her only true indulgence as queen: to her, the castle belongs to Baron, and she will not hoard gold and jewels when children go hungry in the village. But the garden was Cecil's gift to her and it is hers; even Cecil did not have a key to it, though often she invited him to join her.

(Among her favorite memories: the times they made love on the soft moss, with the air full of the smell of flowers and soft birdsong.)

She sheds her heavily-embroidered surcote and her shoes, and then her crown, and leaves them on the low wall by the door. It takes only a touch of magic to light the lanterns, a soft glow that does not drown out the stars overhead. She walks barefoot and picks and plaits flowers, and considers what she has done.

She frightened Kain, she knows. In his eyes, she saw guilt and fear and grief, and she was helpless. She did not know how to ease them for him, could not find the words to tell him that she had never blamed him, that Cecil had never blamed him.

She takes down her hair and binds it again with the flowers, as she did when she was not much more than a child. It is a comfort, to walk barefoot and crowned in flowers, without the weight of the kingdom, with only the night as her companion.

Only the night, and . . . .

From the corner of her eye she sees movement, and when she looks up she remembers, ruefully, that Kain can leap many yards straight upward from a standing start, and that Kain always took comfort from walking on rooftops alone just as she took comfort from walking in gardens. And yes, there he is, standing on the peaked roof with his long hair blown out sideways from him in the wind like a turret-banner.

"I'm sorry," he says, and though his voice is not loud it carries, "for intruding."

"Don't," she says, and though there has been no one in this garden but herself and Cecil till now, she says, "Come down."

He leaps lightly down, then stands still as a threatened animal. "You are beautiful," he says, and she realizes that he sees her now in a shift and flowers and barefoot, not a queen but a woman.

"I won't hurt you," she says, and comes close to him. "I would never hurt you, Kain."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he says, wry and rueful.

"You'll have to find someone else to punish you, if that's what you want," Rosa says, but his tone means that she can make a joke of it. "That's not what I'd like to do with you."

He looks surprised, but he does not retreat. Perhaps this is what she needed to do, to remind him that though she was Cecil's Queen she is a woman of her own, that he can love her as herself instead of loving her in the tangled morass of his own guilt. But he rallies and says, "Not even if I ask you very nicely?"

"Perhaps then," she says, and he laughs and so does she.

This time when she touches his cheek he bends, finally, to kiss her.

His arm tightens around her waist and hers slide around his neck; they fit together perfectly and as he deepens the embrace she thinks, _Yes._

* * *

Kain wakes slowly to unexpected warmth. For the first time in a great while, no part of him is cold, not even the hollow of his chest. He can hear birdsong and smell the breath of spring through the window.

But when he shifts he realizes where the warmth and comfort have come from. Rosa lies next to him, her head against his shoulder, the subtle softness of her curves pressed along his side, her hand on his chest. Her loose hair spills out over the bed and mingles with his, a deep and lustrous gold against his own straw-pale yellow.

He very nearly panics. But Rosa stirs and raises her head and smiles at him, her eyes summer-sky blue and so calm that they bring him to calmness despite himself, his pounding heart finding a slower rhythm with hers.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning," he replies, and he smiles and it feels as though something is cracking. Though he shed his armor and dedicated it and himself to Cecil's memory, it seems he was carrying another set of armor that only now he can remove.

Her smile widens and she kisses him, and he holds her to him and returns it, with all that has been in his heart for her since they were children.

* * *

The rise together, they bathe, they dress, and in the daylight Kain is even more beautiful than he was by darkness the night before. He may think of himself as a creature of the night but the sun loves him, turns his skin to bronze and his hair to the color of a harvest moon. The lean lines of his muscles stand out as he draws the tunic down over his head, and she would be sad to see them covered save that it means she will be able to undress him again tonight and discover them all anew.

The thought thrills her, the slow-growing wildrose in her heart now full in bloom and breathing its heady perfume into her life.

They part and go their separate ways with a kiss that still has some hesitance to it but that is becoming something new. When she meets with her advisors, she is humming, and though they must know what happened no one does anything but smile back at her.

When she is done, she follows a hunch and finds Kain standing again at Cecil's grave, at the armor he had piled at the foot of the tomb. She gives him his space, and wonders what he is thinking. Cecil could speak to those beyond the veil, could ask for and receive absolution from them who numbered among the dead. But Cecil was the last son of the moon, and those who are fully human must seek the same thing within their own hearts.

But when Kain finally turns, he is smiling, just a little. He pauses to pick up his helmet and turn it over in his hands. "I think it may be time to reinstate the Dragoons," he says. "The Red Wings cannot be everything for Baron's defense."

"I was hoping you would decide that," Rosa says.


	4. coda

"One thing I should make clear, my heart," Kain says, six months after that first night.

"Yes?" Rosa looks up from the breakfast table, to Kain where he stands buckling on his distinctive soft-palmed gauntlets. His new squadron of dragoons was proving both small and green, but Kain was himself proving to be an excellent teacher.

"I will not be king. I would be a terrible king, you are an excellent queen, and anyway I do not want the job. I will do anything you ask, except that."

She rises, her dressing-gown whispering in the breeze from the open tower window, and comes to help him buckle the second gauntlet. "I believe I can live with that," she says. "Would you consent to be consort, then?"

He takes her hand in both of his, her fingers small and delicate against the leather and blued steel of his armor. He lifts it, kisses her wrist where the blood pulses beneath the skin, and says, "Yes."


End file.
